


Unembellished

by ThereIsNoTragedyInThat



Series: The Space Between the First and Last Breath [18]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Boys In Love, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Short & Sweet, Slice of Life, Soft Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27710783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereIsNoTragedyInThat/pseuds/ThereIsNoTragedyInThat
Summary: Yusuf struggles to find the perfect words to describe a love like his and Nicky's.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: The Space Between the First and Last Breath [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947598
Comments: 7
Kudos: 130





	Unembellished

It does not happen like a lightening strike or when the light shines a certain way, the feeling does not overwhelm him or send him to his knees with its intensity, and Yusuf can’t help but be a little put out that all of those poems he so adored as a young man were exaggerations. Love, as he slowly discovered over the course of many, many years, was a creeping thing, curling itself around your heart and tightening its grip with such subtlety that by the time you take notice…it is far too late to reverse the damage. 

With a huff, he crumpled up the paper in his hands, expression twisting into one of contempt as it too was tossed into the low burning fire of their cabin. Next to him, lounging on the floor with blankets and pillows all around him, Nicolo glanced up from the book he was reading, one elegant eyebrow raised. 

They were laying low for a few weeks as they waited for Andromache and Quynh to return from their year long excursion to someplace in the North, having promised to meet them in this sleepy, uneventful town. The cabin they had managed to buy for a pittance was small with only three rooms in its entirety, its windows and door creaky with age, prompting them to sleep in the main room by the fire each night. 

Grabbing an empty sheet of their precious supplies, he gripped his pencil tight, intending to put into plain words, his love for the man beside him, only to find himself faltering as his mind conjured flowery, fairy-tale like words to describe it. 

“I take it the poetry is not working for you tonight?” Nicolo’s voice was indulgent, as he often was when Yusuf got like this.

He shook his head, frustration clear in his jerky movements as Nicolo closed his book and shifted closer, a hand settling on his forearm. That was enough to finally make him toss aside his instruments and reach over to tug his beloved closer until he could kiss him as he had yearned to since he returned home from the market that day. 

Nicolo made a small noise against his lips and Yusuf considered himself to be well versed in every sound that came from this man, knew the meaning behind each one and could practically feel his amusement where their lips met. 

When they parted, Yusuf did not let him go far, instead cupping his face with his hands and taking in the sight of the flames dancing in the sheen of his eyes, the shadows that danced so merrily across the sharp planes of his face, “I cannot seem to find the words for how dearly I love you.” 

Nicolo, predictably frowned, “you tell me every day. I can assure you; words have never been a problem when it comes to you.” 

“No,” Yusuf tried to explain how this was different. “I am trying to find the right ones, to finally write a poem worthy of you, that is why I speak so many variations, I have yet to find the right ones.” 

The glint in Nicolo’s eye was the only warning he had that his beloved’s next words were meant to be teasing, “ah, so you are saying you have lied to me all these years. That you did not mean it when you went on and on about my virtues, the shine of my hair in the sun, the shape of my nose, the sensations of our lovemaking, the way you would die for me, claimed to love me-”

Yusuf moved quickly, rolling over until he was straddling a grinning Nicolo, heart suddenly beating like the hooves of an entire army of horses. Even in jest, the possibility that this man beneath him, this beautiful, kind, and loving man might doubt his worth to him, was utterly inexcusable. 

It had been hundreds of years and still Yusuf could not easily forget the doubts that had plagued Nicolo in the early years of their relationship, the fears that Yusuf had dedicated himself to eradicating with each kiss and each adoring word that spilled from his lips. 

“You know I meant every one,” Yusuf insisted, reaching out to brush back Nicolo’s hair. “I have never spoken a false word in my affection for you, because you are all things that are good and right.” 

“You flatter,” Nicolo murmured, reaching up to grip his hand and holding it close. His eyes grew serious, a slight tightening around the edges. “I fear that you sometimes put me on a pedestal Yusuf, one I am not deserving of.” 

He shrugged easily, “you say that as though you are no different. You used to think God had sent you to me to defend my life, despite my immortality. I believe you said that my soul was so pure, so kind, so selfless that it must be the reason for your existence, to take the blades meant for me.” 

They had both been confused and heartbroken in the aftermath of what was now called the crusades, both of them struggling with the meaning of their immortality and what purpose their respective Gods might have had in mind for them. He did not fault Nicolo for such a foolish assumption, particularly as the same thought crossed his own mind on the occasions the other man performed an act of exceptional kindness. 

Nicolo sighed, drawing his attention once more but the seriousness had fled from his expression, his entire body relaxed and peaceful as Yusuf moved to lay comfortably next to him. He arranged them to his own liking, pulling him close until Nicolo’s head was cushioned on his chest, a blanket throw haphazardly over them both. 

“One day,” Yusuf promised. “I will write the perfect poem to describe us both and the love we feel for one another. It will not be dramatic or infused with needless language, it will be plain and honest…just like us.” 

Nicolo hummed, squeezed his hand, “very well. I will gladly suffer through all the variations until then, we have plenty of time to find the right words.” 


End file.
